


Of Love and Lattes

by edna_blackadder



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - Human, F/M, Good Omens Holiday Exchange 2014, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-01
Updated: 2015-01-01
Packaged: 2019-10-07 01:53:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17356715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edna_blackadder/pseuds/edna_blackadder
Summary: A.J. Crowley, part time barista at Madame Tracy's Coffee Shoppe, only wants one thing for Christmas, which is to get through the joyous season without his head exploding. His coworkers are already not helping, and then the proprietor of the bookshop across the street develops an unfortunate addiction to seasonal espresso beverages.





	Of Love and Lattes

**Author's Note:**

> Written for elizakaze for Good Omens Holiday Exchange 2014.

**Monday, 1st December 2014, 7:30 A.M.**

Shivering, with his hands jammed into his pockets, A.J. Crowley trudged towards Madame Tracy’s Coffee Shoppe. He groaned as he saw, in the dim light of the window, piles upon piles of boxes of holiday decorations, many of which, he could only assume, had gone out of style around 1955. He could make out the figures of the self-styled Madame Tracy and her husband, the former excitedly cutting open boxes and the latter determinedly ignoring her and grunting into his vanilla creme. Crowley coughed into his scarf and wondered vaguely if it wasn’t worth getting into the spirit, if only to avoid having something in common with the man. Sighing heavily, he knocked on the door.

Madame Tracy promptly opened it, and not for the first time Crowley wished he had ‘accidentally’ slept through his alarm. No one, not even she, ought to be able to look that cheerful at seven-thirty in the morning, and it was certainly too early for Christmas music. He nodded in greeting and hurried to pour himself some coffee, only to discover that, as they were not technically open, there was none brewing. Someone had switched on the espresso machine, though, so he might as well make his usual caramel macchiato.

Just then the door opened again, and four figures stumbled in, all looking as tired as Crowley felt. His fellow closers, Adam and Pepper, looked particularly resentful of the early hour. Adam sat down next to him, and Pepper sat on Adam’s other side. As Wensleydale and Brian sat down across from them, Raven Sable and Newton Pulsifer emerged from the back room. Newt took a seat, and Madame Tracy clapped her hands in excitement.

‘Good morning, loves,’ she said happily. ‘As you all know, we’re starting the holiday drinks today, so I’m just going to have Mr Sable here remind you how they’re all made, and then we’ll have our annual Secret Santa drawing. Now do open your eyes, Adam. You’re setting a very poor example, you know.’

Crowley turned to see Adam’s head on Pepper’s shoulder. His eyes were closed, but he plainly wasn’t asleep. Pepper, interestingly, looked much more awake than she had done mere minutes ago. Adam opened his eyes morosely.

‘And sit up straight, would you, there’s a love,’ said Madame Tracy, sweetly but sternly, and Adam reluctantly sat up.

Raven Sable cleared his throat. ‘Right, team, this year we’ll be bringing back the gingerbread latte, the eggnog latte, the chocomint—’

‘—and the salted caramel hot chocolate,’ muttered Adam. He slumped over again, this time resting his head on Crowley’s shoulder. ‘We know how to make them. We were all here last year.’

Sable chose to ignore this. ‘Starting this year we’ll also have a skinny chocomint, which I would highly recommend to customers wanting to watch their weight this holiday season.’

‘Artificial sweeteners are even worse for you than sugar,’ muttered Wensleydale. ‘I read a study about it.’

Crowley blinked, because he was half-convinced he’d seen Sable’s smile widen unpleasantly. He also suddenly became aware that he had not had breakfast. He shifted, trying to get comfortable despite Adam’s resolutely placed head.

‘Those of you not working on the holiday displays will be unpacking the sugar-free syrups,’ Sable continued. ‘But first, a quick review. The gingerbread latte gets gingerbread syrup and spiced whipped cream. To make spiced whipped cream, you’ll be adding—’

‘—three scoops of gingerbread spice,’ murmured Adam, addressing Crowley’s coat. ‘Can we go back to bed now?’

‘Now, now, that’s quite enough from you,’ said Madame Tracy firmly, and Adam, knowing defeat when he heard it, sat up straight. Sable nodded and continued.

‘No whipped cream on the eggnog latte, just nutmeg. The ratio is two thirds eggnog, one third milk. The chocomint will get chocolate, peppermint, and whipped cream, and the skinny chocomint will get sugar-free chocolate and peppermint, nonfat milk and no whipped cream. Any questions?’

‘Can we turn the music off?’ asked Pepper. ‘It’s too early.’

Madame Tracy shook her head. ‘Pepper, where is your holiday spirit?’

‘I haven’t got any,’ said Pepper defiantly. ‘Not at half seven in the morning, anyway.’

‘Well, unless you want a big lump of coal in your stocking, you’d best go and find some,’ said Madame Tracy irritably. ‘Pass me the Secret Santa hat, Shadwell, love.’

‘Harlot,’ muttered Shadwell as he handed it to her. Crowley breathed a sigh of relief, having feared she might, somehow, have been referring to the hat on his head.

‘Now we’ll all draw names, and if you draw yourself, just put the paper back and draw again. We’ll exchange gifts at two o’clock on Saturday the 20th. I’ll be making my famous chicken pot pie, so you had all better be here. On Christmas Eve we’ll be closing early, at three o’clock, and then we’ll reopen at noon on New Year’s Day. Twenty-pound limit on the gifts, as always. All right, I’ll start.’ She put in her hand into the hat and withdrew a name, gave a girlish giggle, and passed it along to Sable.

When the hat got to Crowley, he squinted at the name he had drawn: Wensleydale. Crowley hardly knew him, as they worked opposite shifts. He’d have to ask Adam or Pepper for help. He folded the paper and placed it into his pocket. At least he hadn’t got Shadwell again.

When everyone had a name, Sable clapped his hands. ‘All right, time to unpack everything. Adam, Anthony, Pepper, you’ll be unpacking the new syrups and setting everything up in back. Newton, Jeremy, Brian, you’ll be working on the floor displays—’

‘C’mon,’ said Adam. ‘That’s our cue. I’ll put on some anti-Christmas songs.’ Pepper nodded gratefully and stood up. Crowley followed them into the back, distracted by the momentary rage he had felt at Sable’s calling him Anthony. _Crowley,_ he thought. _Call me Crowley, or at least A.J._ Only his parents had ever called him Anthony, determinedly addressing the person they wanted and imagined him to be rather than the person he was. Sable, of course, knew nothing about this, but as far as Crowley was concerned, he shouldn’t need to explain. Sable seemed to view being on first-name terms with everyone as a show of friendliness and approachability, and no amount of wincing on Crowley’s part seemed able to change that.

‘Want to go get breakfast after this?’ he heard Adam ask Pepper as they cut into the boxes. ‘I think the crepe place opens at eight.’

‘Yeah, sure,’ said Pepper, and Crowley saw that they were both smiling, as if they had forgotten he was there. He cleared his throat, and they both started.

‘You can come too, of course,’ said Adam quickly. His face had gone slightly red, and Pepper’s smile faded slightly.

‘No thanks,’ said Crowley. ‘I, um, I kind of just want to go home and make up a few hours of sleep. I’ll see you guys at one o’clock.’

 

**Monday, 1st December 2014, 3:45 P.M.**

If Crowley was honest, he didn’t really hate his job nearly as much as he pretended. He was grateful to Madame Tracy for hiring him when she’d had little reason to do so, and he liked working for Adam, who seemed to consider keeping everyone entertained to be part of his job description as shift supervisor, but who nonetheless got everything done and, critically, never forgot to give breaks.

Unfortunately, Adam was currently in the back room being lectured by Sable about various holiday promotions, while Crowley stood at the register facing a queue of customers that must have comprised at least half of Lower Tadfield, including some of his least favourite local characters. Pepper, trapped on the espresso bar with her stock of milk, cups and lids dwindling rapidly, refused to catch his eye, but he could surmise, from the unnecessary force she was using on the steam wand, that her expression was a murderous one. Both of them were fifteen minutes overdue for their breaks.

Crowley suppressed a sigh as Albus White paid for his blended chocolate with extra chocolate, then left his customary trail of muddy footprints between the register and the espresso bar as he crossed over to pick it up. The next customers, R.P. Tyler and his wife, approached the register. 

‘We’ll have two small skinny lattes with three Splendas in each,’ said Mr Tyler, with his usual condescension. 

‘Two small nonfat lattes with three Splendas in each,’ Crowley repeated, keying the order into the register.

‘ _Skinny_ lattes,’ corrected Mr Tyler irritably. ‘I said skinny, boy, don’t you ever listen?’

‘Yeah,’ said Crowley resignedly. ‘That’s the same thing.’

‘Well, you ought to have said so. Try showing some respect, for once in your life, or I swear we’ll never come in here again. I’ll be writing to the _Tadfield Advertiser_ about you, boy, mark my words.’

‘Right. Sorry,’ said Crowley. ‘That’ll be five pounds.’

‘Five pounds for two coffees?’ repeated Mrs Tyler incredulously. ‘How outrageous.’

‘Five pounds for two lattes,’ said Crowley, willing himself to remain calm. He scanned the queue, which had only gotten longer. ‘Two coffees would be three pounds.’

‘What on Earth is the difference?’

‘A latte is made with espresso and steamed milk,’ said Crowley. ‘It’s more ingredients, you know, more complicated.’ _More work,_ he thought, as Pepper rinsed a pitcher and slammed it down onto the counter before hurrying across the bar to the blender.

‘What’s expresso?’ Mrs Tyler demanded. Crowley winced at the ‘x’ sound.

‘Oh, don’t bother, dear,’ said Mr Tyler, dropping change onto the counter. ‘It’s useless trying to talk to these people. The _Advertiser_ will be hearing about this too, I assure you.’

‘Right,’ said Crowley. ‘Your drinks will be over at the bar.’ The Tylers shuffled off without so much as a reply, and the next customer approached the register. Crowley did a double take.

For one thing, he didn’t know the man, which was odd, as he knew virtually everyone in Lower Tadfield. He’d met them all within days of arriving in town. It was that sort of place. But this man was as foreign to Lower Tadfield as his long, bright red and green tartan scarf was to the entire concept of sartorial style. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, and perhaps it was just the glasses, but something about him screamed ‘bookish.’

‘Hello,’ he said pleasantly. ‘I was just wondering if I might ask a question about your new holiday beverages. How sweet are they?’

‘Huh?’ asked Crowley. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean to say, how much sweetener do you use when you make them?’

‘Er, that depends on what size you want,’ said Crowley. ‘We, um, put three pumps of syrup in small drinks, four in medium drinks, and five in large drinks, just like with the normal drinks. So, um, a small gingerbread latte would get three pumps of gingerbread syrup. And so on.’

‘All right then. I would like a large gingerbread latte, but I’ll take seven pumps of syrup, rather than the usual five. Thank you most heartily for the recommendation.’

‘I wasn’t—’ Crowley started, but then, taking in the other customers’ death glares, thought better of it. ‘OK, sure. Large gingerbread latte, seven pumps of gingerbread. That’ll be six pounds. Name?’

‘Aziraphale,’ said the customer primly.

‘I’m sorry?’ asked Crowley, not sure if he had heard correctly.

‘Aziraphale. A-Z-I-R-A-P-H-A-L-E. There you are,’ said the customer, pressing a five-pound note and change into Crowley’s hand, and then shaking it, much to his bewilderment.

Just then, Crowley felt a tap on his shoulder and turned around to see an annoyed-looking Adam. ‘Crowley, take over bar so that Pepper can take her break. I’ll cover front.’ _I’m so sorry,_ Adam mouthed, inclining his head slightly in Sable’s direction. ‘Right, I can help the next person.’

Crowley nodded and turned to the bar, where Pepper had just begun to pour milk for Aziraphale’s latte. Before he could relieve her, however, R.P. Tyler leaned over the bar. ‘Excuse me, miss, is this decaf?’

Pepper shook her head. ‘No, it’s not.’

‘Well, I never! We wanted decaf! We asked for two skinny decaf coffees with three Splendas each. You, young man, don’t you ever listen? And as for you, young lady, you’ve put far too much milk in these coffees! It should be just a splash! Don’t they teach you young people anything these days?’

‘You never said decaf,’ said Crowley irritably. ‘And I told you that lattes are made with steamed milk. They’re not the same as just brewed coffee.’

‘Well, I demand that you fix this immediately!’

‘No,’ said Adam, coming up behind them. ‘Crowley put in what you ordered and Pepper made it. We can remake your drinks, but you’ll have to wait.’

‘Adam Young,’ said Mr Tyler unpleasantly. ‘As insolent as ever, I see. Who died and put you in charge?’

‘The owner,’ said Adam, ‘only she’s not dead, she’s gone home for tea. We don’t have decaf coffee brewed right now. I can make single cups, but you’ll have to wait while I help these other people.’

‘Such impudence!’ said Mrs Tyler. ‘Come on, Rudolph, we’re leaving. And your father will hear about this, Adam Young, make no mistake!’

The two them swept out indignantly, and Adam returned to the customer he’d abandoned at the register. ‘I’m taking over,’ said Crowley to Pepper. ‘Go on your break.’

Pepper nodded, poured herself a large cup of black coffee and disappeared into the back room. Crowley looked around, momentarily thrown off, and then his eyes fell on the cup marked for a seven-pump gingerbread latte. The tartan-clad, unpronounceably-named customer for whom it was intended was standing by the bar, smiling serenely. He quickly poured the rest of the milk, began to steam it, and pulled two shots. Then he looked around for the gingerbread syrup, only to realise that Pepper had placed the empty bottle on the counter with everything else she needed restocked. With only seconds to spare, Crowley knelt and fumbled in the cabinet below the bar, hoping against hope that it contained a backup.

‘Lovely weather, isn’t it?’ said a prim voice, and Crowley hit his head on the bar.

‘What?’ he asked, looking around for the source of the interruption, and then saw that his shots were about to pour away into the grate. Still on his knees, he managed to move Aziraphale’s cup underneath the spout without its syrup, then realised that the question had come from the man himself.

‘Sure,’ said Crowley, at last managing to find a bottle of gingerbread. He stood up and began to unscrew the cap, then realised that the milk had finished steaming and quickly poured some to save the shots. He finished opening the new bottle of gingerbread, placed the pump inside, added seven pumps of syrup to the drink and poured the rest of the milk, then looked around for a canister of spiced whipped cream.

‘It’s the snow, very picturesque. The village could serve as Dickensian illustration—oh, is that all the whipped cream you put on it?’

Crowley paused. ‘Uh, yeah, usually.’

‘Oh,’ said Aziraphale. ‘I do apologise, I had rather hoped it would be a bit more.’

‘Oh. OK, I can add some. Try asking for extra whip next time.’ Crowley sighed, crossed over to the sink, and poured out some of the milk. Then he added more spiced whipped cream, handed off the drink, and turned his attention to the growing queue of cups along the side of the bar.

‘Thank you kindly,’ he heard Aziraphale say, but he was already pouring milk for the next drink, and merely shrugged in response.

 

**Wednesday, 10 December 2014, 8:30 A.M.**

One of the virtues of closing, in Crowley’s opinion, was that you didn’t have to set an alarm, which he was convinced, despite a general lack of belief, had to be some sort of diabolical invention. Wine, on the other hand, was clearly of divine origin, and after a particularly difficult close the night before, he had consumed rather a lot of it. As such, the last thing he had wanted or expected was to be awakened at half eight by his mobile.

He groped for it on his nightstand, missed and knocked it onto the floor, then fell out of bed trying to retrieve it. He cursed loudly and clutched his throbbing head, then located the still-blaring device and hastily answered it, barely registering the unfamiliar number. ‘Hello?’

‘Crowley, it’s Newt. Would you, er, would you be able to work a full shift today? I have to send Brian home. He’s just thrown up on the pavement outside.’

At the mention of vomit, Crowley could only think of how much he would have liked to do the same. He wanted to say no, but it was December, hardly the time of year to turn down extra cash. ‘Sure,’ he said, without enthusiasm. ‘I’m on my way.’

‘Thank you!’ Newt sounded enormously relieved, and his increased volume momentarily exacerbated Crowley’s headache. All he wanted for Christmas, he decided in that moment, was some kind of instant hangover cure. Well, that and a 1926 black Bentley. ‘See you soon.’

‘Right,’ said Crowley, hanging up. He stumbled towards the bathroom for a hot shower, and by nine o’clock he was behind one of the registers. Madame Tracy was working the other one with her usual cheer, but Wensleydale, assigned to the bar, looked as though he was not feeling his best either, and Newt was running around like a chicken with his head cut off. It did little good against the rush of morning commuters, each needing copious amounts of coffee to sustain him or her on the drive to London. Crowley began to wonder idly, as he poured yet another large dark roast, whether Madame Tracy owed her shop’s continued survival to the M25 London Orbital Motorway.

Raven Sable poked his head out from the back room. ‘Almost done with the order, Tracy, but we need to discuss a few things. Newton, would you cover front with Anthony while Tracy and I figure these things out?’

Newt nodded, nearly dropping the roll of cups he was rushing over to the bar. ‘Right, of course, Mr Sable.’

Madame Tracy smiled as she stepped aside. ‘Right, love,’ she said to the next customer in her queue, a black-haired, green-eyed young woman Crowley didn’t recognise. ‘Sorry about the wait. Newton here will take care of you now.’ With that she disappeared, and Crowley turned his attention to his next customers, a middle-aged couple. As he turned to prepare their two medium Earl Grey teas, each with plenty of milk, he heard Newt stumbling.

‘Small unsweetened matcha latte?’ he repeated, bewildered. ‘I, um, I don’t think we have that. I could offer you green tea with milk, perhaps? We have jasmine green tea, and a pure green tea, and, er, all kinds of milk, um—’

Crowley cringed with contact embarrassment, but the woman’s face broke into an amused smile. ‘Just the jasmine green tea, then. No milk.’

‘Right,’ said Newt. ‘What size? Oh, right, small, you said that already. What’s your name?’

‘Anathema,’ she replied.

‘Sorry?’ said Newt.

‘Anathema,’ she repeated. ‘Anathema Device. As in nice.’

‘Right. Anathema. Your tea will be ready in just a moment—’

‘I’ve already got it,’ said Crowley, placing it front of her. ‘Here are yours,’ he said to his customers, depositing their teas in front of his register. ‘Four pounds, please.’

Anathema grinned at Newt. ‘Nice staff you’ve got there,’ she said, as she paid for her tea. ‘Very efficient.’

In spite of himself, Crowley chuckled. His moment of levity lasted less than five seconds, however, as the couple stepped away to reveal Aziraphale. Crowley could hardly forget the name, not to mention the goose egg he’d acquired while making the man’s drink.

‘Hello,’ said Aziraphale. ‘I was thinking I might try your eggnog latte this time. Tell me, is that very sweet?’

‘Not really,’ said Crowley. ‘It’s just eggnog, milk and espresso. Well, and nutmeg. There’s no syrup in it.’

‘Oh, dear,’ said Aziraphale. ‘Erm, do you have anything else with eggnog in it?’

‘Maybe an eggnog chai tea latte?’ Crowley suggested. ‘That’s sweeter, but it wouldn’t have espresso in it.’

‘Oh, that’s all right,’ said Aziraphale. ‘I really just want the eggnog. All right, I’ll have an eggnog chai tea latte, with extra whipped cream.’

Crowley raised an eyebrow. ‘It doesn’t actually come with whipped cream.’

‘Oh, would you add it, then? I’d be most appreciative. And extra nutmeg, if you would, please.’

‘Right,’ said Crowley. Then he glared at his computer screen. ‘Sorry, what size?’

‘Oh, large, please. And seven pumps of chai, I think.’

Crowley swallowed. ‘Right...large seven-pump eggnog chai tea latte, with whipped cream—extra whipped cream—and extra nutmeg.’

‘Lovely, thank you. Oh, I suppose I ought to mention that you misspelt my name last time. It ends in l-e, not e-l.’

‘Right,’ said Crowley, trying to suppress his irritation. ‘Sorry.’ _Well,_ he thought, _at least I won’t have to make his drink this time._

Just then, Wensleydale appeared at his shoulder. ‘Newt,’ he said quietly, ‘I need to take my break. It’s ten-thirty, and I have to leave at noon today because I have exams at one. Remember? I told you and Mr Sable way back in October.’

Newt groaned. ‘Crowley, could you please cover bar?’

 

**Friday, 19 December 2014, 4:45 P.M.**

 

Crowley glared at the lengthy queue of cups. Norton Polytechnic students were on holiday as of three o’clock, and the rush of drinks hadn’t stopped since then. He handed out what felt like the thousandth skinny chocomint he had made that day and squinted at the next order. Large salted caramel hot chocolate, extra whipped cream, extra caramel. The drink after that, in a rare twist of good fortune, was an americano, so he was able to make them both at once. Perhaps he’d finally have a prayer of catching up.

He handed out both drinks without looking up, but nonetheless his hopes were dashed immediately. ‘Excuse me, dear boy. I’m sorry to trouble you, but this doesn’t seem to have much caramel in it.’

‘Huh?’ asked Crowley. He recognised the voice, and dreaded turning around. ‘I did add the extra caramel sauce, along the sides of the cup. Maybe it just needs stirring?’

‘Sauce?’ asked Aziraphale, perplexed. ‘On the side of the cup? I’m afraid I meant to order extra caramel syrup. Perhaps I ought to have specified a number of pumps.’

‘Oh,’ said Crowley. ‘It, um, doesn’t have caramel syrup in it. It’s chocolate and toffee nut. The caramel is just the sauce on top.’

‘Oh dear,’ said Aziraphale. ‘I’m ever so sorry, but could you possibly remake it with caramel syrup? The toffee nut really isn’t sweet enough.’

Crowley glanced again at the queue of drinks, rage boiling inside him, and then at the customer’s innocently friendly face. He swallowed, forced a smile, and said, ‘Sure.’

Aziraphale smiled warmly. ‘Oh, thank you, my dear.’

 _I hate you,_ Crowley thought, _not least because you can’t even have the decency to be intentionally obnoxious._ ‘Did you want an extra pump of caramel, then?’

‘Oh, of course. Two extra, come to think of it.’

By the time Aziraphale left, the queue of drinks had doubled in size, but at least the queue of people at Pepper’s register finally seemed to have dissipated. Only one woman remained, tall and red-haired. Even at a glance, Crowley could see that she was striking. Several customers waiting for their drinks certainly seemed to think so, and Crowley wondered vaguely if he had her to thank for a lack of foot-tapping and other shows of impatience. Then, as he worked his way through the waiting cups, it slowly dawned on him that the last customer was still at the register, arguing with Pepper.

‘We can’t sell those,’ Pepper was saying. ‘I told you, that whole thing’s a display. Even if I wanted to sell it, I couldn’t ring it up.’

‘What’s the problem?’ asked Adam, coming up behind her. The red-haired woman smiled unpleasantly at him.

‘This girl here’—and no one listening could possibly fail to notice emphasis she placed on the word ‘girl’—’tells me she can’t sell those mugs, because they’re just a display.’ Her pout, Crowley thought, was particularly well-crafted, and indeed the crowd of customers waiting had gone dead silent.

Adam gulped, looking visibly uncomfortable. ‘They, um. They—’

‘Are,’ said Pepper coldly, her face red.

‘Right,’ said Adam. ‘Yeah. Sorry.’

‘I see,’ said the woman, in a venomous tone that suggested she wasn’t used to being refused. Crowley shuddered involuntarily, then noticed that he had failed to hand out his last drink.

‘Small hazelnut latte for Tom,’ he said hesitantly, and everyone turned and stared. A moment passed before one of the men seemed to remember that he was, in fact, Tom.

‘Can we offer you anything else?’ asked Adam, and the red-haired woman pursed her lips.

‘Solo espresso, for here,’ said the woman. ‘Con panna.’ She contemptuously dropped several coins on to the counter and sauntered off towards the bar. Crowley returned his attention to the drinks he still had to make, but he had the distinct impression that the remaining customers had hardly noticed the delay.

‘Crowley,’ said Adam, ‘when you finish those drinks, could you go back and do dishes? Pepper’s gonna sweep, and I can double-cover. I’ll call one of you back if we get another rush.’

‘Right,’ said Crowley. He added whipped cream to the red-haired woman’s shot and handed it to her, then shivered as she took a suggestive sip. One look at Adam told him he wasn’t alone, and he hastened into the back room.

The pile of dishes was endless, but at least it made the time pass faster. It was also considerably warmer in the back room than out front, he realised. After a while he was even beginning to relax, but then Pepper stormed in, slamming the broom into its holder and seizing the mop bucket. ‘Did you see that?’ she snarled. ‘Did you see the way she was looking at him?’

Crowley groaned. ‘I think everyone in the shop saw that,’ he muttered. ‘If you like him, tell him. Just leave me out of it.’

‘I would do, except he’s my best friend since we were five and oh yeah, my boss!’ Then, in her anger, Pepper dropped the mop hose, and a spout of soapy water hit Crowley in the face. He blinked and coughed into his sleeve, and Pepper raced to turn off the water.

‘I’m so sorry!’ she said, as Crowley spat out soap. ‘Are you all right?’

‘‘S’OK,’ he managed to say, between coughs. ‘I’m sorry, too. That sucks.’

Pepper nodded. ‘Even worse, I’m his Secret Santa. There’s plenty of stuff I could get him that he’d like, but I can’t think of anything really special, you know? When we were kids, we’d always be running around playing pretend, but it felt so real, because Adam’s imagination was amazing. Even now, just going out for drinks and stuff, hanging out with him still feels like an adventure sometimes. He even makes working here fun. What do you get for the bloke who can turn mopping floors into working on a pirate ship...what?’ she asked, finally registering the ‘oh crap’ expression on Crowley’s face. ‘Oh, no...you forgot about the gift exchange, didn’t you?’

Crowley nodded. ‘Yeah. It’s tomorrow, isn’t it? And by the time we close, all the shops will be closed too.’

‘Who’ve you got? If it’s me, beer’s fine.’

‘Wensleydale. Any ideas?’

Pepper snorted. ‘Just get him an economics book. No, seriously, he’ll actually like that.’

 

**Friday, 19 December 2014, 6:40 P.M**

Pepper had assured him that Wensleydale would be more than happy with a printed Nile.com receipt, but nonetheless when Crowley saw that the secondhand bookshop across the street was still open until seven o’clock, he breathed a sigh of relief. Which was odd, because he couldn’t remember there being a secondhand bookshop across the street. He wondered vaguely when it had opened, then walked inside.

Crowley supposed all secondhand bookshops were supposed to be dusty, but for such an apparently new shop, this one was especially dusty and dimly lit. ‘Hello?’ he called. ‘Can I, um, get some help here?’

‘Sorry, we’re closed,’ called a disembodied voice, which even from a distance sounded oddly familiar.

Crowley groaned. He peered outside, to make sure he hadn’t misread the sign. ‘The sign says you’re open until seven,’ he called, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice. ‘It’s only twenty to.’

‘Oh, dear,’ said the voice, sounding decidedly cross. ‘I’ll be right with you, then, just one moment.’

One moment became two, and two became three. Crowley could hear the voice’s owner shuffling around, but he was taking his sweet time to reach the front till. When the man finally appeared, Crowley blinked in surprise.

‘Oh, hello,’ said Aziraphale. A smile broke out across his sullen face as he recognised Crowley. His cheeks also looked faintly pink, but that could just be the poor lighting. ‘How lovely to see you, my dear.’

 _We’re not friends,_ Crowley thought. _And even if we were, is this really how you talk to people?_ ‘Have you got any books on economics?’

Aziraphale pursed his lips. ‘Economics, you say?’

‘It’s for a friend,’ Crowley hastened to clarify, even as a tiny part of his brain reminded him that it really shouldn’t matter if Aziraphale, of all people, mistook him for a student of the dismal science. The same part of his brain also insisted there was no reason for him to be either flushing or nervous, and yet he was both.

‘I might have some,’ said Aziraphale after what, to Crowley, seemed like a rather calculated pause. ‘I mostly carry fiction, so all the non-fiction is rather jumbled. But I think you might find some around the corner, past mysteries. It might be under business, or perhaps finance.’

‘Thanks,’ said Crowley. His gratitude vanished in an instant when he saw that out of the alleged non-fiction section, only biographies and philosophy were clearly labelled.

‘Just a reminder that I’ll be closing in a quarter of an hour,’ Aziraphale called across the room, and Crowley winced. It wasn’t anywhere near enough time for him to make sense of the mess, but then it occurred to him that philosophy might not be a bad place to start. He stared at the shelves, trying to pick out the names of famous economic theorists. No Adam Smith, but then he saw it: _The General Theory of Employment, Interest and Money_ , by John Maynard Keynes. The copy looked old, but incredibly well-preserved. Crowley picked it up and headed back towards the register.

‘I’ll take this one,’ he said, and Aziraphale frowned.

‘Five hundred pounds, please,’ he said.

‘Very amusing,’ said Crowley, but Aziraphale shook his head.

‘Unfortunately, dear boy, I wasn’t joking. That’s a rare first edition of one of the most important texts on economic theory in modern history. My asking price is actually quite reasonable. I’m certain that book could fetch some fifteen thousand pounds online, if I were inclined to sell it.’

Crowley opened his mouth, closed it without speaking, and then opened it again. ‘Could you possibly show me,’ he asked evenly, ‘where I might find a book on economics that you can actually sell? Or business, or finance, or accounting. I’ve been assured that any of those topics would do nicely. I don’t care what edition it is; I don’t care if it was published last year or last century; I just need to have it gift-wrapped by tomorrow afternoon.’

‘Have you tried shopping online?’ Aziraphale asked, and Crowley exploded.

‘How is it possible,’ he hissed, ‘that someone so particular about his drinks, to the point of asking for them to be remade when it wasn’t our mistake and we’ve got an ungodly queue, can provide such appalling customer service in his own shop?’

Witnessing Aziraphale’s shock, Crowley felt triumphant for all of a millisecond, and then a combination of guilt and a fear of losing his job took over. ‘I’m sorry. Forget I said that. I’ll just go home, order something online and give Wensleydale the receipt.’

He turned to leave, but Aziraphale shook his head. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he said, sounding as if he truly meant it. ‘I had no idea I had caused you such trouble.’

‘It’s not your fault,’ Crowley muttered, wanting nothing more than to leave.

‘The truth is,’ Aziraphale continued, ‘that this place isn’t really a shop so much a treasure chest. Books are my passion in life. Many of these are incredibly rare and took a great deal of searching to acquire, and I wouldn’t sell them for the world.’

‘So you run a bookshop,’ said Crowley, ‘basically just as a place to store your private library? How on Earth do you turn a profit?’

‘Well, in all honesty I don’t really need to turn a profit,’ said Aziraphale in a rush. He had the decency to look embarrassed. ‘I just need to look like I’m doing something so that my father doesn’t come after me to join the family business.’

Crowley’s eyes widened. ‘What’s the family business?’

‘Well, it’s not so much a business as it is missionary work,’ said Aziraphale, ‘except that a lot of it seems to be much more like a business than I feel like it should be. Too much of the time what they seem to do is ask people for more and more money, when they already have quite a lot of money, so that they can travel to far-flung parts of the world and preach the good word, with little to no regard for the local culture. I do believe, but that is not the way I prefer to practise. I suppose I’ve been quite the disappointment in that way. Well,’ he amended, ‘that and the obvious.’

Crowley nodded sagely. ‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘I know what you mean. I’m a disappointment as well. I read history instead of finance at Norton Polytechnic, which didn’t go over well. They weren’t thrilled with the, uh, not quite as obvious, either.’

Aziraphale smiled. ‘And what’s their family business?’

Crowley laughed. ‘Let’s just say if any of them are ever indicted, I’ll be sure to let you know. Not that I would actually find out about it any sooner. I’m a non-entity to them. They officially cut me off two years ago.’

‘So that’s why you work at Madame Tracy’s?’

Crowley nodded. ‘She hired me, even though I’d never worked a day in my life before that. Granted, she’d never run a coffee shop before, but that’s why she hired Sable.’

‘Well,’ said Aziraphale brightly, ‘I’m sure she doesn’t regret it. You do a wonderful job.’

‘Um, thanks,’ said Crowley, uncomfortably aware that his face had turned bright red.

‘And, as I’ve evidently been making your job harder,’ Aziraphale continued, ‘I really do feel I ought to offer you some sort of recompense. Just give me a moment.’

‘You don’t have to—’ Crowley started, but Aziraphale had already disappeared between the shelves. He returned moments later, clutching what appeared to be a dog-eared economics textbook.

‘This,’ he said proudly, ‘is a third edition of _International Economics: Theory and Policy_ by Paul Krugman and Maurice Obstfeld. At first glance, it would appear to be an ordinary textbook, but it contains within one of its chapters a pun of which Dr Krugman is most proud. I think your friend would be pleased to have it.’

‘I, um,’ Crowley stammered, ‘I can’t accept—’

‘Oh, go on, my dear,’ Aziraphale urged. ‘With your forgiveness, it isn’t bloody Keynes.’

Crowley grinned. ‘Thanks. I’ll take it.’

‘Now,’ Aziraphale continued, ‘as my shop is officially closed for the day, may I offer you a drink? I’ve got quite the wine cellar, you see.’

Crowley nodded. ‘Thanks. That, um, sounds nice.’

Aziraphale smiled. ‘I’ve just got one question. It’s occurred to me that we’ve got to the point of exchanging family histories, yet I still don’t know your name.’

Crowley grinned. ‘Crowley.’

‘Just Crowley?’ asked Aziraphale. ‘No first name?’

‘It’s Anthony,’ said Crowley begrudgingly, ‘but I don’t like it. Only my parents ever used it. I was Crowley at school, away from them, and I came to like it better. I use A.J. if I have to have a first name, but I prefer just Crowley.’

Aziraphale nodded. ‘I’ll be sure to remember.’

 

**Saturday, 20 December 2014, 2:10 P.M.**

Crowley eyed Madame Tracy’s chicken pot pie and thought, not for the first time, that the third bottle of wine he’d shared with Aziraphale had been a mistake, but if Madame Tracy noticed, she showed no sign, humming Christmas carols and generally personifying holiday cheer. Despite his unhappy stomach, however, Crowley had to admit that he was feeling, if not precisely jolly, considerably less resentful of the joyous season than usual. He forced down a few bites of food and glanced around at the others. Sable, Brian and Wensleydale all looked cheerful enough, while Newt’s expression mirrored what he felt his own must be. Even Shadwell appeared slightly less grumpy than usual, not that it improved his table manners any. Adam and Pepper, however, looked nervous and uncomfortable.

‘All right, loves,’ said Madame Tracy, once everyone had finished eating, ‘it’s time for the gifts. Let’s see, this first one says it’s for Mr Sable.’

‘Thank you, Tracy,’ said Sable amiably. He unwrapped the package and held up the contents. ‘Travel Monopoly,’ he read, ‘for when you make that move to the City.’ Sable smiled perhaps the first genuine smile Crowley had ever seen from him, then scanned the room. ‘That’s very thoughtful, er...Newton?’

‘Me, actually,’ said Brian, ‘but Adam helped.’

‘Well, thank you both, then,’ said Sable, and Madame Tracy moved on to the next gift.

‘This one’s for you, Shadwell, love,’ she said, holding up a small box that looked as though the giver had tried to wrap it neatly, but failed miserably.

‘Aye,’ said Shadwell, tearing the paper open with abject disinterest. He opened the box and help a small pin up to the light, and then, to Crowley’s surprise, appeared to go rather misty-eyed. ‘Can it be?’

‘Yes,’ said Newt nervously. ‘I searched for it everywhere, on the Internet and in the newspaper ads. I finally found it at a pawn shop in London. Do you, er, do you like it?’

‘Aye,’ answered Shadwell, clearly choked up. ‘Thank you, laddie.’

‘What is it?’ asked Brian.

‘A genuine Witchfinder Army pin,’ said Shadwell solemnly, reverently placing it back in its box.

‘Witchfinder Army?’ asked Crowley, who had never heard of them in the course of his studies.

‘One of Mr Shadwell’s little obsessions,’ said Madame Tracy brightly. ‘It’s all quite beyond me. Well, Newt, it was very sweet of you to go to all that trouble.’

Newt blushed. ‘It was no problem, really.’

‘Next,’ said Madame Tracy, ‘we have this one, for Adam.’

It was just an envelope. In spite of himself, Crowley sat up straighter. Adam opened it curiously, and then he grinned hugely. ‘Oh, brilliant, Land Ho tickets! Thanks...Pep?’

Pepper nodded, her face as red as her hair. ‘You’re welcome,’ she muttered.

‘How many?’ asked Brian eagerly.

‘Two,’ said Adam. ‘Sorry, guys.’ He didn’t look sorry at all, though, and Pepper’s face cracked into a smile.

Madame Tracy giggled, and then she giggled further as she produced the next gift. ‘Here you are, Newt,’ she said happily, leaving Crowley with no doubt that it was from her.

Newt unwrapped the lumpy package, which turned out to contain a hideous and obviously handmade Christmas jumper. ‘Thank you,’ he said tactfully. Madame Tracy didn’t notice the tone.

‘Go on, then, Newt, let me see you put it on!’

‘Yeah,’ said Adam, grinning, ‘I bet it’ll look great on you.’

Newt’s face was now as red as Pepper’s had been, but he managed to swallow his pride. ‘All right, then,’ he said, and he threw the jumper over his head with a seldom-seen bravado. Adam, Pepper, Wensleydale and Brian all applauded, and Crowley quickly joined in.

‘Now,’ said Madame Tracy, when the applause had died down, ‘here’s one for Crowley.’ She passed him a plate wrapped in cellophane, and Crowley had a sinking feeling he knew who had drawn his name. His suspicions were confirmed when he pulled back the cellophane to reveal a Christmas pudding whose label boasted, in large letters, its fat-free, sugar-free, zero-calorie quality. Still slightly hungover, Crowley felt a wave of nausea as he looked at it.

‘Thanks, Mr Sable,’ he said, forcing himself to smile. For as long as he’d known him, Sable had done this every time, for all of their birthdays and the previous Christmas exchange, when Pepper had been his unlucky recipient. He was friendly with all of them, but well-acquainted with none, and so he routinely gave them the sort of gifts he himself would like to receive.

‘You’re most welcome,’ said Sable obliviously, and Madame Tracy moved on to the next item.

‘Here’s one for Brian,’ she said, passing him a small box.

Brian messily tore open the package and examined the contents. ‘Wicked, firelighters! Bonfire tonight, anyone? Thanks, Shadwell!’

Shadwell, Crowley noted, looked utterly bemused at Brian’s enthusiasm, and merely nodded. Madame Tracy pulled the next gift from the now miniscule pile. ‘This one’s for Wensleydale, and ooh, it’s quite heavy,’ she said, straining herself to pass it across the table. Crowley braced himself.

Wensleydale unwrapped the textbook with painstaking care, then his jaw dropped. Crowley watched as he examined the title, and then the publication date, and then he opened it eagerly, searching for a certain page. ‘“At the time of writing, efforts to negotiate a resolution to Europe’s banana split had proved fruitless.” Wow! It’s the original “fruitless” textbook!’

Just as Pepper and Aziraphale had separately predicted, Wensleydale looked genuinely excited. ‘Thank you so much,’ he said, scanning the room, ‘but I don’t know who you are. Wait...Crowley?’

Crowley nodded, embarrassed. ‘Uh, yeah. I mean, uh, you’re welcome.’

‘I mean it,’ said Wensleydale. ‘Thank you. How did you know?’

Crowley bit his lip. ‘Pepper helped,’ he muttered, but Pepper shook her head.

‘Not that much,’ she said, sounding as amazed as Wensleydale. ‘I just told him to get you an economics book.’

‘Well, thank you,’ said Wensleydale, for the third time. ‘I love it.’

‘You’re welcome,’ Crowley repeated. Mercifully, Madame Tracy picked up the last gift in the pile.

‘Ooh,’ she said happily. ‘This one’s mine.’ She opened it eagerly to reveal a box of fine chocolates, and gave a girlish squeal. ‘Oh, how lovely! Thank you—’ she paused. ‘Wensleydale?’

Wensleydale nodded. ‘You’re welcome. Happy Christmas.’

‘That means,’ said Madame Tracy, ‘that we’ve just got one gift left, and I daresay it’s a very special one at that. Adam, if you would, love?’

Adam stood up, his face red. ‘I’m your Secret Santa, Pep,’ he said softly. ‘But I had to cheat to get you, see. Brian drew your name and I got Mr Sable, but I asked him to trade. Pepper, my present to you is that I’m leaving. I got offered a job at Bilton and Scaggs, and I’m starting there after the New Year. So, since I won’t be your supervisor anymore, I was hoping we could maybe go out sometime. I mean,’ he said hurriedly, ‘if you don’t want to, I understand. I just...I really like you, is all.’

Pepper looked stunned, and so, Crowley was sure, did he. Everyone else, it seemed, had been in on it. ‘Adam,’ Pepper began, ‘I—’

‘Hang on,’ said Adam. ‘Before you answer, I should tell you that I also got you this.’ He held out a package, and Pepper unwrapped it, holding up a videogame.

‘Gut Wrencher III?’ she said disbelievingly. ‘Oh, Adam—’

‘So,’ said Adam, ‘any chance of an ans—’

He didn’t finish that thought, because Pepper’s mode of answering, it transpired, was to kiss him full on the mouth. After a split-second’s shock, Adam responded enthusiastically. ‘Yes,’ said Pepper unnecessarily, when they broke apart for air. Madame Tracy giggled and applauded. Wensleydale, Brian and Newt promptly joined in, and so, half-heartedly, did Crowley.

He was happy for them, of course. But he also knew that Adam’s departure would mean a reshuffle, which might or might not make closing less tolerable.

‘What this means, loves,’ said Madame Tracy, answering his unspoken question, ‘is that Newt is going to be working afternoons from now on, starting on New Year’s Day. I’m very proud to announce that Wensleydale will be the new morning shift supervisor. Congratulations, Wensleydale! Can we have another round of applause, please?’

They all applauded once more, and when it had died down, Sable grinned at an already-blushing Wensleydale. ‘Remember, Jeremy,’ he said, ‘we’re counting on you.’

‘Guess you’ll have to have all your fun now, mate,’ said Brian. ‘Bonfire time! Only I don’t think Adam and Pepper should get to join in, since they’re excluding us from the Land Ho concert.’

‘You can just buy your own tickets,’ said Pepper, smiling. ‘They’re still available online.’

‘Oh, brilliant,’ said Brian happily. ‘Er,’ he said, turning to Madame Tracy, ‘can we go now?’

‘Oh, all right,’ she said, with an indulgent wave of her hand. ‘You four go off and be kids.’ Crowley thought about reminding her that they were all university-aged, but decided against it.

Just after the four of them left, someone knocked on the door. Madame Tracy hurried to answer it, evidently thinking one of them had forgot a glove or something, but it was someone else. After a moment, Crowley recognised her as the matcha drinker who had so flustered Newt. What was her name? Anna? No, it was something stranger than that.

‘Are you open?’ Not-Anna asked, scanning the room.

‘Sorry, love, I’m afraid not,’ said Madame Tracy. ‘We were just finishing up our Christmas party.’

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Sorry. I just saw the light on, so I wondered.’

‘Anathema,’ said Newt, blushing furiously, ‘you, er, you look cold. Would you like some tea? I mean, it is Christmas, or near enough—’

‘Nice jumper,’ said Anathema, and Crowley snickered. He wasn’t sure if it was possible for Newt’s face to turn any redder, but it was certainly trying. But then he noticed that while her tone was teasing, Anathema’s smile was genuine.

‘Right,’ said Newt, ‘er—’

‘What he means,’ said Crowley, ‘is thank you. Right, Newt?’

Newt nodded. ‘Thank you.’

‘Newt, why don’t you fix Anathema her tea, and then you can go on home,’ said Madame Tracy, smiling.

‘Right,’ said Newt. He disappeared behind the counter, then quickly reappeared with both Anathema’s tea and what Crowley could only assume was his own usual café au lait with four sugars. ‘Here you go,’ he said, handing Anathema her drink.

‘You’d best walk her home, laddie,’ said Shadwell, ‘lest she be assailed by the forces of darkness.’

Anathema rolled her eyes. ‘Yes,’ she said sarcastically, ‘I’ve heard a rumour that the Tadfield strangler might be coming out of retirement.’

‘You never know,’ said Newt, and they walked out together.

‘Ah,’ said Madame Tracy, ‘young love. We were young once, weren’t we, Shadwell?’

‘Aye,’ said Shadwell, and Crowley’s stomach rebelled again.

‘Why don’t you go on home, too, Anthony,’ said Sable. ‘The three of us can clean this up.’

‘Thanks,’ said Crowley, choosing, just this once, to ignore the use of his first name. ‘And, um, happy Christmas.’

‘And to you,’ said Sable, and Madame Tracy nodded.

‘Remember, you’re always welcome to come by ours,’ said Madame Tracy solemnly. ‘No one should be alone on Christmas Day.’

Crowley nodded. ‘Thank you, but, um, I’ve got plans.’ He hadn’t, but he had made the mistake of accepting her invitation the previous year, and he wasn’t about to open himself up to it again.

‘Have you?’ she asked. ‘How delightful! Well, a very happy Christmas to you, then!’

‘Thanks,’ said Crowley, leaving in a hurry.

On his way back home, he passed Brian’s bonfire. In the light of the flames, he could just make out the figures of Adam and Pepper, holding hands.

He wasn’t jealous, not exactly. But he felt awkward, and more alone than ever. The irrational part of his brain told him to buy a bottle of wine and knock on the door to Aziraphale’s shop. His rational side, however, cautioned that this feeling was, perhaps, precisely why he shouldn’t.

 

**Thursday, 25 December 2014, 5:00 P.M.**

Crowley shivered as he stood outside the front door of Aziraphale’s shop, willing himself to knock. In one hand, he held an expensive bottle of French wine, which he had purchased two days before and had frequently felt, as it sat upon his kitchen table, was somehow mocking him. In his other hand, he held far less expensive cheese and crackers. He’d thought about a present, but he didn’t want to seem overeager, and besides, he felt certain that if there was anything Aziraphale lacked, he’d be far more likely to find it on his own.

Part of him still wanted to turn around and go home. He hardly knew the man. It was Christmas, and he was depressed. Even in the cheesiest of Richard Curtis films, that wasn’t reason enough to try to seduce someone who was practically a stranger, just on the off-chance he might also be starved for company. And yet.

In his own defence, he reminded himself, it wasn’t necessarily a seduction he had come for. He wanted to see Aziraphale because when they had been drinking together, for the first time since he had come to Lower Tadfield, he had felt truly understood. He had always liked Adam and Pepper well enough, and even tolerated some of the others more easily than he would be inclined to admit, but he had never truly befriended them. He and Aziraphale, on the other hand, had understood each other almost instantly, or so he had felt at the time, despite coming from what appeared to be polar opposite backgrounds. This was what he wanted more of, the only sort of intimacy he was after.

Oh, all right, far from the only one. If the preacher’s son had a secret sinful side he could bring out, Crowley was more than happy to do so. And yet.

And yet, it could all be the wine and holiday depression talking, and Crowley might be a bastard, but he didn’t want to break a heart.

And so, standing there on the front step, he hesitated.

And then, the door opened. ‘Well?’ said Aziraphale. ‘Are you coming in, or aren’t you?’

‘Happy Christmas to you too,’ said Crowley automatically, with some semblance of his usual swagger. ‘I just, um. I wanted to thank you for the book. It, um, went over well.’

‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ said Aziraphale. ‘That’s, er, all you came by to say?’

‘Well,’ said Crowley. He forced himself to look up. ‘I know you’ve got plenty, but I brought this wine, and it’d be a shame not to drink it, wouldn’t it?’

Aziraphale smiled, and at last, Crowley relaxed. ‘That, my dear, would be most unconscionable. Please do come in.’

Crowley allowed himself to be escorted to the back room and sat down, heavily, on the sofa. Upon finding a mismatched pair of glasses, Aziraphale joined him, leaving just enough space between them for plausible deniability. ‘Happy Christmas,’ he said, raising his glass.

‘Happy Christmas,’ said Crowley. After taking a sip of wine, he added, ‘I wasn’t sure you’d still be here. I would have thought coming home for Christmas would be a requirement in a family like yours.’

Aziraphale shook his head. ‘It is the ultimate sacrifice to spend this blessed day among those less fortunate, less civilised peoples,’ he said, wrinkling his nose in disgust.

Crowley winced. ‘Please tell me you’re making that up.’

‘I wish I were,’ said Aziraphale sadly. ‘But in truth, even if they were in the country, I would have made my excuses.’

‘A bit much?’ asked Crowley knowingly.

‘Well, yes,’ Aziraphale began, and Crowley realised, through the dim light, that he was blushing furiously. ‘But I had also rather hoped that I might...well, that I might see you, Crowley, if I stayed here in Tadfield.’

Crowley grinned. ‘That,’ he said, moving unsubtly closer to Aziraphale, ‘is most welcome information.’

‘Not that I don’t enjoy your delicious holiday beverages,’ said Aziraphale in a rush, ‘but the real reason I kept coming back was that I, er, rather fancied you.’

Crowley smiled. ‘You’re not bad yourself,’ he said, placing a hand on Aziraphale’s knee. With his other hand, he raised his wine glass to his lips and drained it in one gulp. ‘And to think I’ve always despised all the seasonal flavours.’

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. ‘Have you really?’

Crowley nodded. ‘I’m not as sweet-toothed as you are. Once you work at place like that, you lose the taste for it after a while.’

‘Oh, dear,’ said Aziraphale. ‘What a tragic existence that must be. If only I could do something to improve your circumstances.’

‘Such as?’ asked Crowley mischievously. ‘You said you were hoping to see me, but if I recall correctly, I’m the one who came to your place.’

‘In my defence, my dear, I don’t know where you live,’ said Aziraphale. ‘I must admit I hadn’t quite decided on a strategy, but I had hoped, if we were both here on New Year’s Eve, that I might find some way to be your New Year’s kiss.’

Crowley grinned. ‘You know, it’s been kind of a crappy year. I wouldn’t say no to ending it early.’ He leaned forward, and Aziraphale placed a hand on his cheek, pulled him closer, and kissed him.

‘Happy New Year,’ Aziraphale whispered, when they broke apart.

‘You know,’ said Crowley, ‘I think it might be.’


End file.
